


Prayers to the Faithful

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-31
Updated: 2008-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tag for "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester." It's not like Dean didn't know this day would come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayers to the Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to destina for the super-speedy beta.

Burning sulfur coats Dean's tongue, but it's not the smell that makes him feel like he might be sick. It's not demonic will—Sam's or otherwise—that roots him to the spot, unable to think, or move. And it's not like he didn't know this was coming, but now that it's here, he feels like an idiot for thinking, even for a minute, that they could go back to normal.

Sam's the first to look away. "Don't look at me like that," he says, a rough rasp with a dull, bitter edge.

He turns away and picks up the knife. He must have tried to use it, Dean realizes, and lost hold of it in the fight.

It breaks Dean's paralysis, and he takes a step forward. "Sam—"

Sam straightens and sways a little. Dean frowns and closes the distance between them, long strides across the marble floor. He wants to reach out but Sam's posture and expression warn him to go carefully. He hates that he's scared of Sam, hates that he feels like he doesn't know who or what he's dealing with any more.

"Hey," he says, voice rough.

Sam finally looks up. He's pale, the blood bright scarlet on his face, skin white around his mouth. He wipes the back of his hand under his nose, glancing at the smear of red; Dean can see his hand's shaking badly. Instinct and a lifetime of protective big brother kick in, and he thinks _screw it_ and goes to him.

He glances at the body on the floor, then puts a hand under Sam's elbow. Sam sways into him slightly, letting Dean take his weight. A breath escapes him; Dean hears the relief in it, and feels Sam suppress a shudder. "Come on," he says, telling himself there'll be time later for figuring this shit out. It's not like it's new. He's sick to death of feeling like there's a giant axe hanging over their heads, and if he's honest, a part of him wanted to cheer, seeing that demon die an ugly death at Sam's feet. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Smoke's starting to fill the chapel aisle with the sweet, ripe scent of the corpses burning downstairs as he hustles Sam out. Sam doesn't fight him, just leans on Dean; he puts a hand out to brace himself against the railing as they come down the steps into the cool night air. The kids have cleared out—Dean can see the headlights of their cars peeling out of the parking lot. No cops yet, but there will be, soon as one of the kids calls home or someone sees the fire.

"You good?" he asks gruffly.

Sam says, "Yeah," and Dean lets him go. The car's parked less than a hundred feet away; Sam breaks into an unsteady jog, and Dean shadows him close. He gives Sam one last glance before they get in, but Sam's face is closed, unreadable. Dean's been getting that a lot lately.

Grim, Dean starts the car; she's still got egg on her, and the sight of it makes him feel guilty—which is pretty ridiculous, all things considered. Another one of Lilith's fucking seals broken, his own brother's becoming someone he barely even knows, and he's feeling guilty about his car. He glances over at Sam as they pull out onto the road and haul ass away from the cemetery. _Sorry, baby,_ he tells her. _Got other things I need to deal with right now._

Sam's acting like he's in la la land, staring out the window, like Dean's not even there. A mile, two, and his silence holds as impenetrable as the stone gate of a fortress, and Dean's hit by the feeling of déja vu. It's Dad all over again, after Sam split for California. Dean might as well not exist, and he's had enough of that bullshit to last a lifetime. Make that two, he thinks, mouth twisting.

"So," he says, harsh, and having this conversation again is pretty much the last thing he wants, but it's not like Sam gave him a choice. "Guess that whole cold turkey thing ain't workin' out so great, huh?"

Sam's slow to answer, like he has to come back from a long way away to do it. He swallows, and when his voice comes it sounds like his throat is shredded. "It was going to kill everyone, Dean."

Dean takes his eyes off the road, gives his brother a long, hard look. Sam's staring at his hands, scraped and open on his knees, no emotion at all on his face. Dean's gotten too familiar with that lack of expression since he came back. It's like Sam's turned himself off in some way Dean can't define, and Dean doesn't know how to get past that diamond-hard shell. Sometimes it feels like he's imagining it, like things are almost the way they used to be—and then he'll look over and see the thousand-mile stare, that stillness that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It makes him feel like it's not really Sam in there, only it's worse than that; a demon, he could exorcise, but this is his brother, and he's got no idea how to fix it.

"How long?" he hears himself ask.

Sam finally looks at him, then, looks right at him, heart in his eyes, that _trust me, you can trust me_ look. "Not since Missouri. Not since that night in the warehouse, Dean, I swear."

Dean tears his eyes away from Sam's. He might even believe it, but it doesn't matter, doesn't make it any better. Even if Sam's telling the truth now, Dean can't trust him, and that hurts more than all the rest of it put together.

He wants to be angry. Getting angry is the best reaction he knows to being scared out of your mind, and he could use some of that righteous fire right about now, but it's gone beyond that. _Stop it, or we will._ The problem is, he doesn't have the first clue how he's supposed to do that. And if Sam can't control it, if he's already past the point of no return, then—

Dean shoves that away. He'd rather cut himself open with that knife and rip his own guts out.

"What about Ruby?" he asks, the one other thing he needs to know. "You seen her lately?"

"Dean, no. I told you. Not since that night."

"And why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth!" Sam breaks off, and Dean can feel him struggling to keep his temper, can feel the sudden force of his anger like another presence in the car. After a moment he says, like it costs him, "Dean, it's the truth. I had no choice, all right? I did what I had to. It was either that, or we were all dead. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

Dean takes them onto a residential street and pulls to the curb, far enough away from burning mausoleums and bodies with gunshot wounds to satisfy caution. He turns the car off and turns toward his brother, pleading.

"Sam, you gotta help me out, here. Help me understand."

Sam's face closes up tight, and he looks impatient, like Dean's asked him something he's got no right to ask. "I already told you, you can't."

"Yeah, well, that's a load of crap."

Sam bites off a short, bitter laugh, and looks away; in the light of the streetlamps, Dean sees for the first time the finger marks disappearing under Sam's shirt collar, deep, angry bruises where he'd been choked, red crescent-shaped welts from that thing's fingernails. It makes his chest feel like there's a weight on it, his gut clench up in a way that's as familiar to him as breathing.

"Hey," he says, before he can stop himself. "Don't do that."

Sam's eyes flicker back to his, uncertain. "Do what?"

"Shut me out. This is me, Sammy. Don't—" His voice goes rough despite himself, but he doesn't let it stop him. "Don't act like that doesn't count for something."

For the first time in longer than he can remember, Sam's whole face changes, that look he gets any time Dean asks him for something flat out, no macho bullshit or bravado or whatever the hell misdirection Dean's got going on any normal day. Bright spots of color stain Sam's cheeks; his breath hitches and he has the grace to look ashamed of himself, though defiance is still written in his stiff neck and the angle of his jaw, just like when he was a kid.

"That's not fair."

Dean huffs a breath. "Yeah, well, life ain't fair, Sam. Deal with it. Because I'm sick of you acting like—"

"Like what?" Sam asks, voice tight.

"Like everything's okay, everything's fine, you got it all under control." The car's too quiet, not enough room in here, and he really does not want to be having this conversation, but it's too late to go back now. "What happened back there? That's some fucked up shit, Sam. And before you go ballistic on me, I get it. I get that you felt like you had no choice, and believe me, I'm glad we're sitting here arguing about it instead of the alternative. But you don't start dealing with this? This shit is gonna kill you. And that's without any God or angels comin' down on our asses."

Sam's staring at him like he's speaking Chinese, but he's listening. "So, come on. Talk," Dean says, and waits, refusing to back down or look away. It takes everything he's got to hold on to Sam's gaze, but he does it, because it feels too much like this is his last chance to get through to Sam—that if he doesn't, if they go on the way they have been for one more day, he's never going to get another chance.

"It doesn't always," Sam says haltingly. "It's not always like that. Doesn't always hurt that much."

Dean swallows and says nothing, just nods to show he's listening.

Sam lets out a breath as if he'd been holding it, waiting for Dean to say something else. "I didn't know for sure if I could do it." He steals a glance at Dean, and Dean's got no idea what expression he's wearing, but he does his best to keep it open, nonjudgmental. Sam ventures, "You should have seen its face, Dean. Even at the end, it never really believed it could lose."

Dean grunts, swallowing back the bile that wants to rise at the image that returns, unbidden—Sam's face twisted in a snarl of agony and rage, unrecognizable.

"The thing is..." Sam says. "The thing is, Dean, there's so much more I could do. You have no idea. Ava was right, once you start flipping switches, it's like you start seeing everything differently, you know? And Ruby—" Dean can't help the way he bristles at the name, and Sam stops. "Believe me, there've been times when I wanted to. But Dean, I've been stopping myself. This whole time, the only thing I've done is exorcise demons. I can control it. This power, it came from a demon, but I can _choose_ to use it for good."

He looks at Dean, then, his face earnest and so sure, a fierce light in his eyes that makes Dean think of Roy Le Grange's congregation watching him up on that damn stage. Part of him wants to believe in Sam that way, but he has too much of John Winchester's training in him, and it's too deeply ingrained to ignore.

"Say something," Sam says, when he's been quiet too long.

"Sam." He tries to find words.

"I know," Sam says, a little desperate. "I know how it sounds. But you're the one who told me I could fight it, remember? No one can control you but you, you said."

A chill touches Dean, cold hand at the base of his spine. "You remember that?"

Sam flushes, but he doesn't look away. "It's the one thing from those days I really do remember. That, and you coming after me." He watches Dean's face, searching his eyes, and Dean can feel himself respond to Sam's need for his approval in ways he's helpless to prevent.

He steels himself against it and rubs a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. "I'm not liking what I'm hearing, Sam. There's a reason God sent _angels_ down here to stop you from doing this. You gotta know that."

"Yeah, and those same angels wanted us to stand aside and let them wipe a whole town off the map."

Dean grimaces. "You got a point there."

The corner of Sam's mouth turns up, a faint, barely-there acknowledgment. "It's still me in here, Dean. All I'm asking— All I'm asking is that you think about the possibility that I'm right about this."

It's Dean's turn to search his brother's face, and what he sees there reassures him in ways he hasn't felt since he got back from Hell. Maybe it isn't too late, he thinks, and surprises himself with the thought. Maybe there's still a chance they can make this work.

Maybe Sam's not the only one who put so many roadblocks between them that the simplest forms of trust had become impossible.

"Yeah," he hears himself saying. "Okay. I'll think about it."

Sam doesn't say anything, but the expression on his face makes Dean think risking divine wrath is worth it.


End file.
